


Presumption

by meetmeatthecoda



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: 7x09 AU, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lizzington - Freeform, Romance, The Blacklist Secret Santa 2019, christmas shenanigans, on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: "But no, he thinks morbidly, aching sadness and heartbreak reverberating from somewhere deep in his chest. He’s far too old, too damaged, to be appealing to her.He should have known."Gift for apicturewithasmile for The Blacklist Secret Santa 2019 over on tumblr! Starts as 7x09 and goes AU from there, no Kat. Red tries to do a good thing by suggesting Liz pursue a personal life and Christmas misunderstandings ensue. Lizzington.
Relationships: Elizabeth Keen/Raymond Reddington
Comments: 16
Kudos: 128





	Presumption

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apicturewithasmile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apicturewithasmile/gifts).



> Written for apicturewithasmile!! Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays to you, my friend!! I hope you enjoy!! :D <3

The wind blows briskly outside, keeping D.C. chilly in the week before Christmas, and driving people into stores and businesses to keep warm. Red can see the rush of people from his comfortable seat inside the toasty, quaint café, although he pays them no mind. Instead, he sits, back ramrod straight, stirring a cup of hot tea absent-mindedly and watching Lizzie fidget out of the corner of his eye.

She won’t stop checking her phone.

He had hoped he was simply wrong in his assumptions that morning, when Lizzie said she was waiting for someone. He knew consciously that brushing past her and waltzing into her home uninvited was rude. But, the second he realized the genuine happiness on her face when she opened the door wasn’t actually for him, the primal, jealous portion of his brain – the part that Lizzie always seems to awaken – had roared to life.

(Dembe’s disapproving look had been punishment enough for his thoughtless actions.)

But now, confronted with the reality that Lizzie is waiting for a call - most likely from whatever undeserving male he had forced her to blow off this morning - he feels nothing but despair. As unlikely as it is, some small, shriveled part of his heart was apparently holding onto hope in the form of the looks they were sharing lately, the sparks he felt between them. Their potential.

(He was holding out hope that, well, she might be waiting for him.)

But no, he thinks morbidly, aching sadness and heartbreak reverberating from somewhere deep in his chest. He’s far too old, too damaged, to be appealing to her.

He should have known.

And Red presumes her behavior only makes sense: she finally has Agnes back and it’s been over a year since Tom died. She’s even finally stopped wearing her wedding ring.

(Red had to restrain himself from cheering with joy on the day he finally saw her pale, unadorned ring finger.)

In the time since, Lizzie has been so successful in creating her little family of two, that it makes sense that she might start seeking a third member before long.

(Red just never thought he would have to be privy to the courting process.)

Seeing her now, bouncing her leg, tapping her fingers, nervous as can be, he feels stabs of guilt for his despair. He should be supportive of Lizzie moving on from Tom and seeking a new partner. After all, she deserves nothing but happiness.

(He told her that once and he meant every word. And he? He is the opposite of happiness.)

So, Red grits his teeth and forces himself to speak.

“Are you expecting a call?” he asks mildly, trying to keep any bitterness out of his tone. But it seems to be a rather fruitless exercise, since Lizzie is very clearly not listening to him.

“Yeah,” she mutters, pressing a few buttons on her screen impatiently.

Red bites his cheek. “A –,” he stops, his voice a little strangled from all the things he’s forcing down inside himself. “A personal one... I hope.”

(He’s never hoped for anything less in his life.)

But his false words seem to get Lizzie’s attention for some reason. She swivels her head towards him, finally breaking her staring contest with her phone to give _him_ the oddest look instead.

Her abrupt gaze startles him, the piercing blue scrutinizing with no warning, and he can’t smother his tick in time, the skin under his eye twitching without his permission.

Lizzie’s eyes narrow.

Red tries to cover his blunder, delicately raising his teacup to lips, his eyes subtly on Lizzie as she ignores her own hot coffee in favor of turning back to her phone screen, biting her lip nervously.

Just as Red tilts his cup and moves to cautiously take a sip, her phone rings, loud and obnoxious, the volume obviously turned up for this call especially. Even though she’s been waiting for it, the call still seems to startle her, and Red responds in kind, jumping a little and scalding his tongue with his hot tea.

Lizzie snatches her phone off the table and stands in a hurry, muttering as she goes, “Excuse me, I have to take this...”

Red stares after her as she hurries to the back room of the cafe, apparently wanting privacy for her call, but she doesn’t quite move fast enough, and Red catches a few more words as she disappears from view.

“Hello? Yes, I’ve been waiting...”

Red grimaces.

He should be happy.

* * *

Liz hurries to the back room of the café, feeling a little guilty about leaving Red behind so abruptly, but mostly just concerned with answering her phone call.

From her babysitter.

Agnes had complained of a runny nose and a scratchy throat this morning at breakfast, but when Liz checked her temperature, it was normal. She promised Agnes she would call at lunch to check on her and, if she felt worse, Liz would come get her.

“She seems fine to me, Liz, she’s having fun playing with the other girls. Plus, she had her normal appetite at lunch, she finished her whole PB&J sandwich!”

Liz feels relief run through her. A common cold may not be a serious illness, but it would be the first time Agnes was sick with her since she was a baby.

(And the thought of her baby not feeling well and not being with her? Brings back bad memories.)

“Okay, thank you so much, Beth!” Liz says gratefully. “I’ll see you at the usual time then!”

“No problem, Liz!”

Liz hangs up, feeling much more at ease knowing Agnes is feeling better. Liz taps her phone on her leg. But something is still niggling at her. She remains in the back room, frowning as she thinks back to Red, still waiting outside.

He surprised her.

His behavior was rather predictable this morning, when he invited himself into her apartment at the mention of another guest. Liz was a little irritated but mostly filled with an exasperated fondness.

Red has never been subtle about his jealousy.

And though she probably wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it, she actually didn’t mind that much. It had been a long while since he’d been to visit.

(And she’s forgotten how it feels to be wanted.)

So, this morning was pleasant enough, but the same cannot be said for Red’s abrupt reversal not five minutes ago in the main room.

Why would he suddenly switch tactics and encourage her to develop a personal life? When he was so clearly jealous at the mere thought of her having company this morning? Is that really the way he feels?

(That thought, more than anything else, is what sparks Liz’s anger to life. He hasn’t felt their recent chemistry? Is she wrong?)

Liz’s frown deepens. She stuffs her phone into her back pocket and peeks outside into the main room. She sees Red talking to their contact, a pleasant smile on his face but a warning glint in his eyes, leading her to believe that he’s likely threatening them with bodily harm. Liz smirks. Classic Red.

(Somehow, they never see it coming under the carefully constructed facade he presents. That’s part of what makes Red so brilliant.)

Liz ducks back into the empty room before he can see her. She has a few more minutes, perhaps to try and puzzle out Red’s curious behavior. He’d asked about her call, prodded a little, almost spilled his tea too and probably burned himself when he –

His eye.

The twitch.

Oh.

She’d stared him down and he hadn’t been able to smother his tell. And that can only mean one thing.

He _is_ jealous.

Liz smiles to herself. Well. She can work with that.

* * *

“Good morning, Lizzie!”

Red waves as he approaches the small table for two at the outdoor bistro, where Lizzie is already seated. She looks radiant this morning, a deep green scarf wrapped loosely around her throat, and he might just compliment her today, because the sun is shining beautifully, just warming the chilly winter day, only a few days before Christmas, and he’s in a fantastic mood –

Lizzie looks up at him, her expression pleasant enough, but she holds up her index finger in a request to wait.

Red’s smile falters.

She’s on the phone again.

Red purses his lips but takes a seat at their table and pours himself a coffee while he waits for Lizzie to finish up her call. Unfortunately, that means he can’t help but overhear.

“Yes, a table for two, please, André,” Lizzie smiles as she listens to the response, practically glowing with excitement.

His good mood is evaporating at the speed of light.

(And his coffee tastes bitter.)

“Oh, yes, candles would be a lovely addition, thank you so much, André!”

(She’s beaming, thrilled to be arranging a date, and Red wants to be anywhere but here.)

“Oh, yes, I think he’ll love it! Friday evening, then, and thank you again, André!”

(He really doesn’t think he can –)

André?

Lizzie hangs up and turns to him. “Sorry about that, I was making a dinner reservation!” she chirps, all bubbly excitement that he hasn’t seen in a long while and, oh, he’s never felt so alone.

Red forces a smile onto his face. “Yes, I presumed as much. I couldn’t help but overhear... Was that André, the maître de of Le Petite Paris downtown?”

Lizzie takes a sip of her coffee before answering. “Yes! That’s your favorite restaurant in town, isn’t it? I thought it’d be the perfect place!”

(Forget bitter, the coffee has turned to ash in his mouth because Lizzie is taking _another_ man to _his_ favorite restaurant, where _they’ve_ dined together, and she wore a _red dress_ –)

“Red?”

“Yes,” he chokes, trying to clear his throat of ash and despair. “Just perfect.”

* * *

The elevator doors open onto the busy post office floor and Red strides out, wasting no time in looking for Lizzie. The only person he sees though is Donald who, upon catching sight of him, jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards Lizzie’s office. Red wordlessly nods his thanks and makes his way there.

But as he approaches the door, he hears voices.

“So, what do you have planned?” Aram’s curious voice.

“Well,” Lizzie is answering brightly. “I’ve got a table reserved at Le Petite Paris, complete with candles and flowers!”

“Wow, how’d you get a table there, their reservations are usually months in advance!”

“Lucky for me, Red knows the maître de and he’s taken me there before.” She sounds absolutely giddy.

(And so, she _does_ remember their time there together. But she’s still willing to throw all that aside for _some undeserving_ –)

“Thank you again, Aram, for agreeing to watch Agnes for the night!”

“Oh, it’s no problem, I’m excited! My god daughter and I are gonna have an awesome princess movie marathon!”

Red hears Lizzie laugh, actually laugh, delighted with the idea, with everything, and he can’t listen to any more.

He steps into the doorway. “Agent Keen, I have some new information for you.”

Lizzie blinks, looking a little taken aback by his sudden appearance and abrupt manner, but she nods nevertheless, moving to follow him out of her office and back onto the floor.

“Thanks again, Aram!”

Red tries to wipe the scowl from his face.

* * *

No matter how much Red wishes it wouldn’t, Friday arrives, bringing with it both Christmas Eve and the dreadful occasion. As the day rolls into evening, Red can do nothing but sit morosely in front of the fire at his safe house, nursing a tumbler of scotch, wishing he could stop thinking about Lizzie and her date.

It doesn’t help that he knows exactly where they’ll be, what food Lizzie likes, what kind of wine she’ll order. He hates that he knows there will be flowers and candles and dim lighting and –

Red squeezes his eyes shut, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, his scotch glass dangling loosely from one hand.

And little Agnes is with Aram, probably eating far too much sugar and enjoying all things princess, and Red is here all alone.

(Like always.)

Red pinches the bridge of his nose before tossing back the meager amount of scotch in his glass, which is all that his churning stomach can handle.

He stands and begins to pace back and forth across the room but no matter how many steps he takes, he can’t get rid of the image of Lizzie enjoying a romantic dinner with an awful, faceless man _that should be him_ –

Red turns with a growl and hurls his glass at the fireplace, watching it shatter against the brick backing.

(It doesn’t make him feel any better.)

He whirls about, searching the room angrily for his phone before spying it on the table near the door and stalking over, snatching it up and hitting number one on his speed dial.

(She’s been number one for a long while.)

“Hello?” she sounds breathless and excited and oh, how he greedily wishes it was all for him.

“Lizzie,” he forces out, trying to squeeze any anger out of his tone before she can sense it.

“Hi, Red,” she says, and there’s a few dull thumps on her end, as if she’s struggling with something. “What’s up?”

Oh, right. He has to have a reason for calling, other than his rampant jealousy. He struggles to think of something on the fly. “I – I was wondering if you wanted to stop by, I’ve just opened a fantastic bottle of scotch and I’ve no one to share it with.”

“No one?” she asks, miraculously seeming to buy his truly paper-thin excuse to try and talk her out of her date. “Well, where’s Dembe?”

“He’s out for the evening,” Red responds, his first truthful statement of the whole phone call. “He cited some personal business for the night. He was rather cagey about it, actually.”

“Well, why don’t you save some to share with him when he gets back? I’m sure he’ll enjoy it later.”

Red chews on the side of his mouth. “So,” he fumbles for any sort of tact and comes up woefully short. “You’re not available then?”

“Nope, not tonight!” she says cheerfully, blissfully unaware of how hard Red is grinding his teeth. “I have my date, remember?”

(And oh, if only she knew how hard he tried to forget.)

“I actually have to get going now,” she continues, oblivious to his shattering heart. “I’ll talk to you on Monday, all right?”

“All right,” he barely manages to croak out the words, his worst lie yet, before she’s bidding him goodbye and clicking off.

Red stumbles over to the armchair, gripping the back and bracing himself on it while he hangs his head, feeling completely and utterly defeated.

She’s actually moving on, seeing other people, she took his stupid advice and didn’t look back to see how desperately he was reaching for her –

No.

Red straightens up all at once, anger and jealously and heartbreak fueling him. He can’t let her go. Not after all this. He should try to, that would be the right thing to do – to let her go and quietly stand guard in the distance, as is his role – but he’s a weak man and he always has been.

He has to try one more time.

So, in the next moment, he’s whirling about the room, grabbing his coat from the rack and the car keys where Dembe left them on the end table, and walking right out the door, slamming it closed behind him.

He’s going to crash her date.

(And in his heart of hearts, he knows that that’s an awful thing to do, but he can’t help himself, as is often the case with Lizzie. He’s in far too deep to quit now.)

Red stalks to the Mercedes, sliding in the driver’s seat and jiggling the key impatiently in the ignition, muttering darkly to himself as he does so. “If she didn’t want trouble, then she shouldn’t have booked _my_ favorite restaurant.”

It’s petty and mean, but it seems justification enough as he gets the car started and speeds through the streets of D.C. to André’s restaurant, no plan in his head other than to get there.

(He has no florid words planned, no eloquent speech to express the depth of his feelings for her. Just his heart, a lonesome offering to her.)

It doesn’t take long for the car to come to a screeching halt in front of the restaurant and Red barely turns off the ignition and yanks out the keys before he’s leaping out and hurrying inside.

“Mr. Reddington –”

He’s surprised André who’s checking in a party of diners but Red simply pushes them all aside to hurry up the side stairwell to the second floor of the restaurant, because he has to _stop her_ –

Red throws open the door and promptly skids to a halt.

There’s Lizzie.

But she’s alone.

And she’s staring expectantly at him.

Red can only blink and gaze around the room, speechless. The whole floor, usually filled with dining couples dressed in evening finery, is empty save for Lizzie, by herself at the center table. The main lights are dimmed, and all the unoccupied tables have small candles, illuminating the room with their gentle flickers. There’s decorative holiday garland on the chairs and wreaths on the walls.

And at the most beautifully decorated table sits Lizzie.

She’s wearing a stunning ice blue dress, sleeveless and form fitting, her hair in an intricate, braided up-do, her face aglow with natural beauty and minimal make-up.

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Red stands there, mouth agape, unable to speak, staring wordlessly at her, until Lizzie seems to take pity on him. She rises from her chair and walks slowly towards him.

He watches her approach in something like wonder, the dancing candlelight creating shadows across the silken fabric of her dress and the beautiful planes of her face. Her mouth pulls upwards into a gentle smile as she comes to a stop in front of him.

Red can only shake his head. “But I thought...”

“You thought I had a date, didn’t you?” she asks him quietly.

“Well...yes,” he mutters. “You said you did.”

Lizzie tilts her head. “I may have mentioned a date. But I didn’t say with whom.” She frowns delicately. “And even before that, you suggested I go out more.”

Red hangs his head. “I did.”

“But you didn’t mean it.”

“...No.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“…Because I want you to move on and be happy. Even if…Even if it’s not with me.”

Lizzie shakes her head, gently reprimanding, and then surprises him by lightly tucking her index finger under his chin and tilting his head up. Red looks at her, confused.

“Red,” she says softly. “How could you think I’d like to ‘move on’ with anyone but you?”

Red’s heart soars at her unbelievable words and his face breaks into a wondrous smile. Lizzie smooths her hands down his chest and takes a tiny step closer, looking him in the eyes as she leans forward to kiss him softly on the lips.

(And her kiss is the best Christmas present Red never thought to ask for.)

His eyes remain closed for a few long seconds after her lips leave his and Lizzie waits until they open again before she speaks.

“Merry Christmas, Red,” she breathes. “How about dinner?”

Red nods dumbly and follows as she takes his hand and guides him to the table. He has enough presence of mind by the time they get there to pull her chair out for her. She smiles in thanks as he sits down and, before he has the chance to say anything, André appears at his side with a sly smile, pouring them each a glass of wine before speaking.

“Your usual, Mr. Reddington?”

“Oh no, André,” Red laughs. “I’ll have whatever the lady’s having.”

Lizzie beams at him.

“Excellent choice, sir.”

She orders for them, something he doesn’t pay any mind to, because he trusts her so completely and because he’s too busy staring at her, eyes luminous in the candlelight and against the color of her gown. André takes their order quickly and disappears in a flash. Lizzie turns to him.

“I didn’t do this all on my own, you know.”

“No? I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Lizzie laughs lightly. “No, Dembe helped me decorate.”

“Ah,” Red smiles ruefully, the few scattered pieces coming together. “Well, I’m glad I saved some scotch for him then.”

Lizzie grins smugly. “Glad you listened to me?”

Red takes her hand. “Always.”

Lizzie goes on to detail how she managed the whole thing, explaining that she had help from André, Dembe, and Aram while Red listens quietly, thinking only one thing to himself.

He should know better than to presume anything about Lizzie.

She always manages to surprise him.

Even on Christmas.


End file.
